


Keep What Remains

by volti



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, F/M, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Spoilers, World of Ruin, [it's always sunny title card] Gladiolus Gets A Girlfriend, time skip
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2018-11-07 00:24:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11047437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volti/pseuds/volti
Summary: "What do you think about holding onto something when you've lost everything else?"Remember how Gladio mentioned getting a girlfriend during all those years of darkness? Here's how that happened.Spoilers up to Chapter 13 of the game, so proceed with caution!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> here I am minding my own business when suddenly this idea whacks me over the head. Now it's been at least 5,000 words and my notebook's a mess and I wanNA DIE LOL 
> 
> anyway, here goes! enjoy this first bit <3

It started with a book and some morbid curiosity. Because didn’t it always with you? From the womb to the tomb, that was how you were about these things.

To be fair, maybe it was a bit of prejudice on your part as well—maybe not the kind that got people hurt, or worse, but a judgment call was a judgment call, poor or otherwise. You just… weren’t expecting to see some burly hunter who looked like he could probably crush another man treating the pages of a worn paperback like an infant. It was almost paradoxical, how he was perched on a bench with the book cradled in one hand, reading by the glow of a Lestallum streetlight and looking far too absorbed to just be passing the time between bounties. If anything, he looked like a professor in hunter’s clothing. (You could have waxed something poetic about how they weren’t all that different, but your brain was too fried at this time of night for that.)

That was your first mistake. The assumption.

Mistake Number Two was walking past him instead of taking the usual back-alley to your apartment. And Mistake Number Two and a Half was catching sight of the book. Well, truthfully, you couldn’t say you _just_ caught sight of it. It was more like you were outright staring at it, trying to make out the title in the dim light, and the heroic stance of the boy on the cover, and—

And oh, gods. He looked up from the book. He was _staring_ at you. One of the stupidly endearing, curious little things that said, _How can I help you?_ instead of, _Do you mind?_

So you did the first thing you could think of. You straightened up, and cleared your throat, and took a sudden, burning interest in your shoes. (You never said it was the _best_ thing you could think of. Just the _first_ thing.) 

“Um. It’s a good book,” you told him, not sure whether to wince at the way your voice cracked, or the nervous laugh you let out after. Which, well—you could have said something more riveting. But to be fair, you could have said something you know you would have agonized over till your dying breath, so you had to give yourself some credit.

The man didn’t say anything at first, and when you looked back up to question the silence, he was still staring at you. Was the guy trying to intimidate you into explaining yourself? Or had he literally forgotten how to speak? Or oh, oh no, what if he _couldn’t_ talk, or couldn’t hear you? You’d heard stories about that one hunter, an alleged member of the old Crownsguard who they said had gone blind by Leviathan

“You’ve read it before?”

You blinked, snapping yourself back to reality. Or rather, his voice pulled you back, like an anchor or a tether, deep and gravelly and warm enough to ground you again. (Was it Mistake Number Three to let it envelop you that easily?) “Yeah!” Admittedly, you sounded a little more excited than you should have, so you decided to dial it back, awkwardly rubbing your neck in apology. “The whole series, actually. There’s six of them, did you know? They’re… pretty clever, if you pay really close attention to all the myths and stuff. Even the number’s clever, considering… you know… the Six.”

Yeah. So much for _dialing it back._

For some blessed reason, he didn’t seem to mind your rambling. In fact, he looked kind of amused, and he sat up straight and closed the book. “Guess I’ll have to look out for the sequels, huh?”

You blurted out your name and a hasty _Nice to meet you_ after a pause that you hoped hadn’t run on too long. “You don’t look like you’re from around here,” you added. “Then again… nobody’s really from around here these days. They just kind of… trickle in.”

The man gave a solemn nod, as if to say he was from a lot of places. Too many places, maybe. Too many thoughts, too. But then he held out his hand, and—had his eyes always been that brilliant a shade of brown? Like amber, almost; you’d never seen anything like them, except in stone. “Gladiolus,” was all he said. “Gladio, if that’s a mouthful.”

It kind of was, but you couldn’t help but give him a smile. “Gladiolus, like the flower? Or Gladiolus, like the weapon?”

Slowly, a grin spread across his face, almost matching yours, as he took your hand and shook it. It nearly smothered yours, warm and firm with years of experience, and he looked almost reluctant when he pulled it away to pat the empty space on the bench in invitation. “Looks can be deceiving, y’know.”

You talked a while longer under the glow of the streetlight, long after people had turned in for the ceaseless night. You told him you were from the southern part of Cleigne, that your family was built on fishing and open air markets, so the bustle of Lestallum was a familiarity that quickly became home. (“So what do you do?” he asked, and let out a single, surprised laugh when you told him you were a tutor.)

In turn, Gladio told you that he was a hunter, as if his entire appearance hadn’t given him away at first glance. The dark clothes, the leather gloves, the greatsword he kept at his side. Even the feathery spread of ink along his arms seemed to precede him; for a moment, you had to wonder just how far the tattoo reached. Still, he went on that it was what he’d spent his days doing since the darkness began six years back, and even before then. Because he _could_ fight, and who was he to sit idly by if he knew he could do something about it? It seemed… noble of him, to put his life down so easily every day. Like he was trained to do it. 

“Got a sister who’s a hunter, too,” he said before you could entertain the thought any further. “She’ll be twenty-one soon.”

“And you?”

“Just turned twenty-nine, couple weeks back,” he said, worth enough to mention but not enough to celebrate. Like there was something else twenty-nine-year-olds were supposed to be doing instead of wasting away their lives beating off the byproducts on an indefinite darkness. Somehow a belated _Happy Birthday,_ seemed all too inappropriate, for all the pleasantry behind it.

“Sounds like the hunting thing runs in the family,” you said instead.

“Protection runs in the family,” Gladio replied, almost a murmur, almost like you weren’t meant to hear him. For a flicker of a moment, his hands looked and moved as old and as weathered as the book they held. But he seemed to straighten up again, and added, “You said you’re from southern Cleigne? You might know her. She used to live near there—that old white house at Caem, near the lighthouse? Brown hair, about your height. Big smile.”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re _Iris’s_ brother?”

He grinned. “So I can take that as a yes?”

So you talked about Iris, and the weird coincidence of having never run into each other all those years ago. And you probably talked even longer for it, because for some reason it was always easier to talk about other people than about yourself. He told you snippets about their childhood, things that toed the line of embarrassing but wouldn’t warrant a smack if she ever got wind of it. You told him about how her penchant for moogles far outweighed her sense of care for Algebra. (He laughed, and didn’t seem surprised. “Yeah, that never really went away.”)

And then you mentioned that she never did say where she was from, exactly; she just showed up one day, tending to some carrots and a stray cat and announcing that her “haphazard little family” had just come here from Lestallum. “I’d ask, but she sort of… dropped off the face of technology a while back.” You managed a laugh. “Guess now I know why, right?”

Gladio’s laugh matched yours: soft, and short, and almost lifeless. “Maybe it’s a good thing she didn’t.” A pause. “It’s hard, thinking of where we’re from.”

“Would you tell me?”

“You’re still a stranger to me, practically.”

“What if I don’t want to be a stranger to you?”

He stopped, and sat back. And then forward. Back, and forward. Different positions of thinking. How long was he a stranger to this kind of interaction, if he had to stay thinking this long? All those six years? Longer than that? He wasn’t that alone in the world, was he? All that dark. All that quiet. One book, and one sword, to keep him company.

He looked up, out toward the street—the guardrail, the stone spiral staircase that led to the view over the gorge. (Like that meant anything anymore.) “I have a hunt tomorrow,” he finally said, pocketing his book. “One of those iron giants keeps croppin’ up nearby.”

You swore you felt your heart sink into all the boldness you thought you had. “Oh. Right.” Kings would be dead kings. Princes would be vanished princes. Hunters would be hunters, all work and no play. Work logic. You knew it well enough.

He was still staring at the guardrail. Then he nodded toward a white truck close by, opened up in the back with steam rising from the doors. “Afterwards,” he added, “I’ll meet you there.”

He rose to his feet then, patting himself down as if checking for his belongings, and he was grinning again. “Y’know,” he said, “It’s dangerous, walking around at this hour. Can’t in good conscience leave a girl to walk home alone at night.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Gladio, it’s always night.”

His smile only grew wider. “I know.”

———

Gladio didn’t, in good conscience, leave you to walk home alone. In fact, he walked beside you, at a steady, almost languid pace, with his thumbs tucked into his jacket pockets. Duty-bound, almost. Like a guard. Like he’d been bred for it. He absolutely towered next to you—which most people already tended to do, considered how short you were, but he was in a league all his own.

“How… tall are you, anyway?” It was a ridiculous way to break the silence, and you winced at your own impulse. _Really_ rubbing in that good first impression, you were.

Gladio rubbed the back of his neck in thought. “Something like six-six, last I checked.” He must have seen your eyes widen, because he barked out a single, hearty laugh and added, “Yeah. I get that a lot. Iris is kind of a munchkin next to me. Works out, though, whenever we get to hunt together.” He gave a noncommittal shrug, and looked to recede into himself in some strong-and-silent way. Something that said his lack of words wasn’t due to a lack of confidence.

“I meant to ask about that, actually.”

He shot a glance your way. “About what? Iris?”

“About hunting.”

“What, you wanna join?”

“No, nothing like that. It’s just…” You scuffed your heel against the cobblestones and gestured vaguely toward your neck. “Usually hunters have those dog tag things on them. They make a pretty big deal of them. I’ve heard talk about it in town—someone freaked out because they lost theirs one time.” The more you talked, the less of a good idea it seemed _to_ talk. “Do you just, not have one? Or choose not to wear it?”

In response, Gladio reached up to touch his own pendant—a small wooden X. You wondered if it meant anything; they looked awfully similar to some prayer beads you’d seen once. Maybe he was one for prayers as much as he was one for books. Or for stamping out judgment calls made in the middle of the night. “Never really thought to have one made, I guess. Never saw a reason to.”

“Well, what are they for?”

“To be known. Or, I guess, to be remembered by.” His hands curled into loose fists, and his gaze hardened under the intermittent stream of the streetlamps and house lights. “Kinda messed up, isn’t it,” he said, “that those things have more value to you when you’re not even around to take it in.”

Now you _really_ knew that talking had been a bad idea. A quiet apology tumbled from your lips, and you took solace in the sound of your footfalls, the ebbing conversations of those you passed by. Gladio took his usual pace at your side, and you couldn’t help but feel his gaze on you every so often. You didn’t even have to look. All you had to do was feel.

He followed you to your doorstep without another word, apparently comfortable in all that city quiet, and made sure you found your apartment without a hitch. It was… strangely relieving, knowing someone wanted you home safe. Even if it was someone you’d only met a few hours ago. Had it really been hours?

“For what it’s worth,” you murmured as you turned the key in its lock, “I can think of two people who’d want to remember you. Maybe value you while you’re still here. That’s not so messed up, is it?”

“Who’s the second person?” he asked.

While your keys still dangled in the deadbolt, a smile crept across your face. All kinds of knowing. All kinds of well-meaning. All kinds of promising. “Good night, Gladio,” was all you said, and you could have sworn you saw a spark in his eyes, wide and near-amber in all that light, before the door closed behind you.

———

He wasn’t there when you got to the bench the next night.

Of course, logically that probably meant that the hunt was taking longer than usual—you’d heard talk from hunter who stopped by about how nasty the jobs could be sometimes, and you’d seen plenty of daemons on the frantic drive up from the south. But there was still a crestfallen, pessimistic, anxious part of you that thought that maybe he’d forgotten about you. Or that the whole thing was a joke. Because really, what could he have possibly seen in you, aside from an association with his no-longer-a-kid kid sister? (And was that even worth it?) Of course he was out of your league. Of course he was helping polite conversation along, or just chatting you up to prove that he could.

And yet, here you were, with your nose in a book of poetry, sitting on the bench with your legs crossed. Stupidly wishing those thoughts would recognize their own ugliness and disappear. Stupidly hoping you’d look up and find him casually towering over you, one eyebrow raised in curiosity as he tried to read upside-down. Even the fact that you were entertaining _that_ specific of a mental image seemed too absurd to bear. 

When was the last time you were even this hung up on a boy? Or hung up at all? You didn’t want to think about it. Instead, you hunched over with the book in your hands and your elbows digging into your knees, reading the same poem over and over. Like this, it was only a swimming together of words, instead of a string of meaning.

You lost track of just how long you stayed like that, but soon enough, you caught a figure shifting out of the corner of your eye, and you looked up. _Do you mind?_ instead of _Can I help you?_ And instantly regretted it.

Because it was Gladio standing there, bending over with his hands in the pockets of his green leather jacket, peeking at the cover of your book with a knowing grin. Sure, it wasn’t the _exact_ image you had in mind, and sure, maybe he was poking a little fun at you for the night before. But you couldn’t deny the relief that seeped into your blood—squeezed in between receding anxiety and the guilt at every ugly thought that had crossed your mind before.

“Can’t in good conscience leave a girl to walk home alone at night,” you teased, snapping the book shut and tucking it into your bag, “but you _can_ in good conscience leave her to wonder if you stood her up?”

“Ouch.” Gladio laughed. “Guess now’s as good a time as any to get your number then, huh?”

You probably would have rolled your eyes if you hadn’t been so mesmerized by how absently he managed to tie his hair into a half-ponytail, fingers catching along his beard on the way down. “Of course.”

He grinned. “Of course.” He didn’t seem like one for dramatic or flourishing motions, but here he was, offering his arm to you in a bow, one eyebrow raised in invitation. “Ready to get going? Can’t keep a lady waiting any longer than she already has, y’know.”

It shouldn’t have made you giggle like you were back in your teenage years, peeking around corners and sighing wistfully against rows of locker doors. But it did, and you could have sworn you saw Gladio’s eyes light up all the more for it. You might have thought this was something he did every day, or at least every opportunity he got, and so easily too, if not for that. Slowly, you got to your feet, taking his arm and looking everywhere but at him; it was hard enough reconciling the pliancy of his words to the solidity of his muscle in your grip. The flower and the weapon, all at once. “Guess I’ll have to oblige,” you told him. “At least for Iris.”

Gladio was still smiling. “At least for Iris.”

Two ordinary people standing on the outskirts of a restlessly sleepy city, like you stood at the edge of the world. Walking in streetlight like a tightrope between reality and infinity. Two almost-friends, arm-in-arm, arguing over whether eggs in ramen should be scrambled or poached, or whether a caesura meant more than an enjambment. One hand slipping down to take another without thought, a foot falling out of line after a particularly hearty shove, and a thousand touches exchanged with every look.

That was all this piece of night gave you.

For now, that was all you needed from it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So guess who accidentally stayed up like three nights in a row, feverishly writing through two updates with Halsey's new album on repeat?
> 
> YEP
> 
> ME
> 
> (Speaking of which, I'd love to be able to put together a playlist for this fic too! I already have a few songs in mind. Maybe with the next update?)
> 
> In any case, enjoy this new installment, even though I'm posting it at 3AM :'D

Parallels had the odd tendency of creeping up in your life. And it was never like you actively asked them to. They were crazy random happenstances that never really hit you until days or weeks or months later. Like they were made specifically for you to look back on, completely unintentionally, on a run to the drugstore or in the middle of a shower. Like the Six had already penned down the book of your life before you had a chance to live it, and you were living as they’d written you. Like free will was known to everyone but the people who had it.

That was exactly what happened with those first two nights you’d met Gladio. And you were sure it was going to happen again when you ran into him a few days later. Still perched on the bench near that steaming white truck. Still reading the same book—you didn’t even have to bend over to look at the cover this time. Still giving you that _Can I help you_ smile when he looked up to meet your eyes. But it melted into something knowing as soon as he recognized you, and he scooted over to make room for you to sit.

“Hi, stranger,” he said.

You smiled, and took a seat next to him, tapping the top of his book. “I figured you would’ve been done with this by now,” was your response. No need for hellos when it was all in the gestures.

Gladio raised an eyebrow. “What gave you that idea?”

You shrugged. “The way you read, mostly. You do it like you’re devouring the words.”

That made him smile, and he closed the book. “I’m reading it again,” he finally admitted. “You always find new stuff the second time around.”

“You’d find even more new stuff if you read the sequels,” you pointed out.

“Gee, what a _novel_ idea.”

“We’re _going_ to the _bookstore,_ ” you insisted, in spite of how he laughed at his own pun. And without any more fanfare, you got to your feet, holding out a hand to him.

Even with the quiet Monday evening clamor of people on the streets, there was an odd, challenging silence that hung between the two of you. Gladio’s gaze darted between your eyes and your outstretched hand, as if searching for a reason to decline. A hunt he hadn’t quite started yet, a base he needed to touch. But he got to his feet, and tucked the book away, and took your hand in his. Or, more precisely, he cupped his hand around yours. There was something safe in how easily they fit together. “Lead the way,” he said, and walked beside you less like a guard and more like an equal.

Which you could appreciate, because despite the two times he’d walked you home already, he wasn’t your guard. And despite of all the banter and quips, he wasn't really your _anything._ He wasn’t something to be kept or claimed.

The bookstore was a hole-in-the-wall of a place, not too far from the Leville, caught between it and the open-air market farther back. It was one of those places that was easy to miss until you actually saw it, like a layer of instruments in a song you’d heard a thousand times before, or an upside-down iron in one of those hidden object puzzles that the newspaper only published on Sundays. Even Gladio’s mouth fell open when you approached the door and pushed it open. “We used to sleep there,” he said, jerking a thumb at the Leville. “All this time, and we never knew.”

“Who’s ‘we?’” you asked, but he waved the questions away with a hand. So instead you followed up with, “So then, where did you get books to read? You didn’t go to the library here?”

“Brought some from home,” he explained; from the way he’d dismissed you earlier, it probably wasn’t a good idea to ask where home was. Nobody really wanted to think about a home they couldn’t go back to these days. “And I stopped in the library sometimes, sat down to read if there was time, but we were—I was always in and out of town. Stuff to do, people to see. Never made much sense to check out a book and rack up all those overdue fees if I didn’t even know when I’d be back in town. ‘Sides, it’d keep other people from getting to read it, too.”

“Huh. I never thought about it like that.”

“I know it’s hard to believe,” Gladio said with a grin, “but sometimes I actually use my brain.”

You'd been to the shop more times than you could count—partly to browse their fiction selections, partly to settle up in the café in the back to plan your lessons for the next few days. Even still, there was a sense of wonder that seized you every time you laid eyes on the dark espresso shelves. The floorboards creaked under every step in a vintage, independent sort of way, and the lights above were the closest thing you’d felt to daytime since daytime still even existed. A couple of sturdy metal ladders poked out along the walls, and between the shelves and tables and carts of displays, everything demanded to be touched, to be cracked open and known for every grain of paper, every drop of ink.

As cliché as it sounded, Gladio looked like a kid in a candy shop—or, as close to one as a 6’6” bearded man nearing thirty could. His eyes were wide, and he stood up straight, and no words tumbled from him in that new, sudden quiet. You gave his hand a squeeze—and only then did you realize you were even still holding it—and nudged his side, and he took a cautious step forward, still in awe of the whole place. Once you slipped away from his grip, you’d all but lost him to the stacks.

You’d heard a comparison once before that browsing a bookstore was kind of like dating. You’d look around for whatever caught your eye, stroking along spines the way you might skim the classified section of a newspaper, or swipe at profile after profile one some dating app or. other. Or you’d walk in, eyes wide open, knowing exactly what you wanted, what you were looking for, and filtered through what you weren’t. 

Either way, you never came to them in the end, for all your searching. They came to you, unassuming, like a butterfly on the shoulder, and asked to bare themselves to you by virtue of a cover, a label, a recommendation. Anything you deemed worth noticing, worth your time. You’d pick them up, one at a time, flip through the pages with the respect they deserved, pick through the obvious and avoid the secrets that demanded to be earned with time and investment. And you’d take them home, each story a lover, each lover a story, and discover them with gazes and touches and words of your own.

In the middle of all your introspection and browsing, you’d ended up taking a seat on a nearby stepping stool, a couple of thick novels stacked in your lap and a couple more laid carefully at your feet. To fall in love with strangers, while Gladio was off exploring every corner and floorboard and spine he could find. Wanted to find. The only indication you had that he was still around were the slow, heavy footfalls as he moved from aisle to aisle, the occasional flick of pages from his own curiosity, and—after you didn’t even know how long—the gentle nudge of his boot against the toe of your shoe.

Gladio was smiling when you looked up, a finger marking the paragraph where you’d left off, and blew some hair out of your face. “I think you’re having more fun here than I am.”

“What gives you that idea?” you asked.

He only gestured at you with both hands, as if to say, _Need I say more?_ , and you looked down at the steadily growing pile around you.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Gladio said with a laugh. “ _Oh._ ”

“Well,” you said, trying to change the topic, “did you find the second book?”

“Nah. Just browsing for now.” And then, “Unless you wanna help me.”

Which, of course, you couldn't pass up. Half the fun was in the discovery, and half the discovery was in the search.

He helped you disassemble your book towers and return them to their rightful places, and you weaved through the shelves until you reached the books fit together along the wall. “Up there,” you said, pointing at the highest shelf in the Young Adult section as you stood on tiptoe. “You could probably reach it yourself, or I could go grab the ladder and climb up.”

“Think I have a better idea,” Gladio said after a moment of thought, and before you could ask what he meant, he’d placed his hands on your waist and lifted you up to the top shelf, grip tightening to keep you steady. You let out a surprised and entirely unflattering yelp, scrambled to grab the book you were looking for, and he let you down with a grin. “More fun than a ladder, right?”

Your cheeks were absolutely flaming. “ _Warn_ me next time if you’re gonna do that!” you squeaked.

“Warn me next time if you’re gonna be so cute about it,” he shot back, and you didn’t know whether to blush even more or roll your eyes as you shoved the book into his arms and jabbed a finger at the register. The cashier there was already watching, amused, probably trying to gauge how long you and Gladio had been dating.

You weren’t, of course, but you couldn’t fault her for assuming. You probably would have thought the same thing.

Gladio made it a point to take you home again, and you didn’t make it a point to talk him down from it. Not when he could use the plastic bag he carried against you. Instead, you walked side by side through streets and alleys, each of you sipping a warm drink you’d bought from the café. There wasn’t a need for words when you’d already spent the night in love with them, so you spoke with gestures. The scuff of a heel against the ground. The lingering brush of fingers against a steam valve you passed by. The bump of his arm against yours. The cry, in every step, for the moment to anchor you there. To keep from ending.

The only thing Gladio said, before you parted ways, was, “The way you read. You do it like you’re savoring the words.”

———

There were a lot of things you learned about Gladio during those first three meetings. And the one after those. And all the ones that followed in the weeks that passed.

He preferred the phrase “preoccupied with work” over “late” whenever he came to see you—even after he let slip that part of the reason he was so “preoccupied” at all was so that he could watch you reading from a distance, absorbed in all those words. He preferred tea over coffee—it was better for the body—but wouldn’t say no to a cup of either. Not only had he read the same first book over and over because he could hardly afford the time to pop into a bookshop or library, he had three or four that he cycled through, most some form of historical fiction. The reason he adored reading at all, in fact, was because of all the bedtime stories he read to Iris when they were children.

You didn’t really know how long they got to be children. Something in you told you not to ask.

So you had the sense to bring him back to that bookstore once or twice, whenever you had the chance to. You let him experience that same wonder beside you, let him feel the age of the floorboards and the novelty of the crisp pages under his touch. Sometimes, you peeked at him through the slots in the shelves, or from the end of the aisles, and wondered if he treated people the way he treated books-with all that care. With all that delicacy. 

He never bought anything besides that sequel in the end, just read slipcovers and first pages and seemed to fall in love with those alone. Still, he seemed to stop by the same thin paperback each time; it was only when you peered closer—subtly, of course, so you didn’t disturb him—that you realized it was a copy of the collection you’d been keeping in your bag. You hadn’t really pegged him as a poetry person—not that it would be the first time you made a wrong assumption about him. But there were times when you caught him flipping through its pages, settling on studying one as he huddled in a corner as best he could, dark brows pinched together at the middle.

You had to wonder if he was reading the same poem every time, interpreting from every angle possible, scouring for meanings that hid away from skimming eyes. Or if, perhaps, he was trying to read what you read. See what you saw. 

You always left him to it, of course, but you couldn’t help but let your gaze linger a little longer whenever you caught him. Like he was every embodiment of “looks can be deceiving.” A cliché he all but lived by.

The other thing you learned about Gladio was that he absolutely insisted on walking you all the way to your doorstep every time you needed to part ways. You always reminded him that you’d been perfectly fine before you met him, that daemons never made their way into town—there was way too much light for that. In turn, he always reminded you that evil didn’t begin at the edge of streetlights. These were still desperate times, and anyone could still spring from shadows and try to mug you, or worse.

“We’re going together,” he would say, enveloping your hand in his, and that would be the end of it. He’d navigate with you through throngs of refugees and late-night workers, citizens trying to cling to some semblance of “night life.” Along the way, you’d talk about whatever came to mind—his latest hunt, a new development in the book you were reading, the lessons you had to plan for the next day. “It’s kind of incredible,” he said once, just barely audible over the dull roar of the people.

“What is?” you asked.

“The way you can keep going through, y’know.” He gestured around him. “All this.”

You only shrugged, and told him, “Just because the sun doesn’t come up anymore doesn’t mean the days stop for us. Going on’s never been much of a choice. It hasn’t been one for you, so what’s the difference?”

“The difference is, it was never your job to.”

“I’m a teacher. It’s my unspoken job to.”

Gladio stopped, in the middle of all that noise, and gave you a thoughtful, almost impressed look, like you’d spat out the stuff of the poetry book he kept huddling over. (You hadn’t. You’d read it cover to cover enough times to recite one at the drop of a hat.) “Yeah," he said after a moment, running a gloved hand through his hair. A few dark locks fell limply into his eyes. He didn’t seem to care. “You got that right.”

Sometimes, if he had a hunt early the next day, he’d leave you right at your doorstep with a two-finger salute and the lingering steps of someone who didn’t quite want to leave you. The backward, see-you-again steps that hoped for sooner rather than later. Other times, if he could afford it, he’d take a seat beside you on the stoop and talk a while longer. He looked kind of comical like that, tucked in so his knees nearly touched his chin when he sat, or with his legs sprawled out along the steps, but it didn’t look like he minded much. He seemed perfectly content to keep talking. As though he hadn’t talked to much of anyone in a long while. He knew a few people, he said once—could count all his friends, real friends, on one hand.

“Which finger is mine, then?” you asked with a teasing grin.

Gladio returned it, and without a word held up his little finger, linking it with yours and coaxing it out of your lap and into the space between the two of you.

You had to admit, the tricks he kept up his sleeve were pretty good, and all the more miraculous if he made them up on the fly. You didn’t want to know how many more he was hiding—the farther away from sight the end was, the better. And it always felt that way whenever he stayed. There _was_ no end. Time had been merciful enough to stop for the two of you.

When he did leave, it was always with a reluctant pat to your shoulder or squeeze of your hand, a lasting glance to the book in your lap, and that same touch of his fingertips to his temple. 

“Will you be okay?” you asked. Every time.

And every time, Gladio gave you a smile and jerked a thumb behind him. “Got a place nearby,” he’d assure you, even though a place could be a homecoming in the Leville, a barely-effective haven, a caravan in a run-down outpost where he might do more fighting for his life than sleeping for it. “Rest up, Buttercup,” he’d say—the rhyme widened his grin—and he’d be off with those same backward steps before he found the resolve to turn on his heel and walk away.

At least he managed to text you whenever he reached whatever place it was. And at least you managed to stay up long enough for that message. You’d fall asleep like that then, with a stack of mostly-finished lesson plans or mostly-graded tests on your desk, your book and purse tossed haphazardly on the floor, and your phone in your hand before Gladio could follow up with so much as a _Good night._

The moments ended. That much was true. But they repeated, and that was the truer, better part.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly don't even ask me how I'm churning these out so fast. *I* don't even know
> 
> anyway, enjoy this next installment <3 I'm still a little shaky about it, but I hope you like it all the same!

_D’you think something can mean everything and nothing at the same time?_

You’d been sitting at your desk and staring at the text message for the last five minutes, speech bubble as grey as you thoughts. You couldn’t help it—it was that time of year when students were in need of any extra help they could get for their finals. A boon to your bank account, sure, but it still took a toll on your schedule, and your brain.

Your eyes drifted to the header of that text conversation, where Gladio’s name stared back at you, challenging you beside an emoji of a flexing arm. Sure, your conversations tended to err on the side of philosophical sometimes—he joked that it was a curse placed upon him by a guy he only ever referred to as “Iggy”—but that only ever happened when you got to spend time together. When you got to stare out beyond the outlook, scouring for as many stars as the streetlamps and your wildest hopes would allow you to see. (You both knew they weren’t out there. Not with the Scourge. You hoped beyond hope anyway, that you might philosophize them back to life.)

They were a stark contrast from the messages you exchanged by phone—a few months’ worth of two- or three-word bits asking where the other was, checking for safety, and the occasional good morning or good night. Like those times ever mattered anymore. If he wanted to _talk_ to you, he’d call you from his “place nearby,” wherever that was, and listen to your evening. To make up for howsparesly he got to see you, he said. Strangely, it made for good company when he couldn’t be around.

So then, why was he texting you something like this?

With a sigh, you made quick work of the best reply you could manage. _I have no idea what we’re talking about here._

There wasn’t much to do after that, beyond watching the grey ellipsis on your screen that indicated that he was typing back, and wondering why he wasn’t calling. Or why he couldn’t.

_I was just thinking. About what we talked about that one time._

_Um, we’ve talked about lots of things lots of times._

_The dog tag thing._ And then, _Can I call you?_

It was kind of sweet how he asked every time, as though your schedule was less forgiving than his. _Call me,_ you typed, and no sooner had you pressed SEND than your phone began to vibrate, nearly silent in all that dark. Part of it was because you didn’t want to disturb anyone, even in the comfort of your own home. Part of it, through some sense of paranoia that had never quite settled, was because you were never exactly sure how well daemons could hear.

Gladio didn’t sound like he was in any kind of dire situation when he picked up. Maybe the text was a fluke, then. “It’s good to hear your voice,” he said; you could practically hear the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You always think it’s good to hear my voice,” you pointed out, pushing away from your workspace and setting on your usual bed routine.

“That’s because it is,” Gladio shot back. “Am I not allowed to like your voice?”

Your stomach fluttered a little. You weren’t sure if you hated it or not. “Well, no, but—”

“I rest my case. You’re home, right?”

“Yeah. You?”

“I’m at an outpost, but I’ll be back in Lestallum in a few days.”

“Right.” These days, if he wasn’t in town, he was at some outpost or other, reporting on or receiving hunts from colleagues or their leader—Dave, if you remembered correctly. Still, he tended to work alone, in spite of literally every other hunter out there, though he never seemed to talk about why. In fact, it seemed like he tried to _deter_ you from asking why. “Listen, what’s this whole thing about meaning nothing and everything? And what does that have to do with the dog tags?”

Gladio sounded like he was leaning against something on the other end; he tended to do that when he was thinking particularly hard about something. Or when something you’d said had taken him aback, as though anything you could ever say would surprise him. “Just crossed my mind, is all. What do you think?”

“About what?”

“About holding onto one thing when you’ve lost everything else.”

You managed a laugh, putting him on speaker as you changed. “You’re all over the place. Like, you just went from point A to point X, and I’m somewhere around… I don’t know. E? But tell me about the dog tag thing,” you went on over the sound of his low laughter and an apology.

“That’s what I’m _asking_ about in the first place.” Sometimes he was a little too convoluted for anyone’s own good. A few steps ahead, on the edge of everything.

Shorts in hand, you took a seat on the edge of your bed; it creaked with protests and thoughts. “I think meaning is relative,” you told him honestly. “What means nothing to one person means everything to another. We can’t really… underestimate that, even in people we know, without hurting a part of someone’s soul. And as for the whole ‘holding onto something when you’ve lost everything’ bit… I think, all you can do is keep what remains, and move forward.”

Silence hung on the line between you, during which you put on the rest of your pajamas and turned out the lights. Gladio seemed to be reflecting on what you’d said. It was something he did every time you said something like that. _Dropped a truth bomb,_ he called it. But the quiet never got easier. It still got under your skin and unnerved you while you waited for some kind of approval.

“Huh,” Gladio finally said, the way he always did when you said something worth contemplating—which he seemed to think was all the time. You could picture him standing there, leaning on some counter with his lips quirked and his eyes narrowed in thought (definitely not stroking his beard, though; even the thought of picturing that made you stifle a laugh). You could see it right in front of you, even though he’d never come inside your apartment before. Maybe that was just the wishing talking.

“Listen.” He was pulling you back now. “I’ll be back in Lestallum in a few days, like I said. I wanna see you again before I head back out.”

You shifted under the covers, trying to hide the frown that threatened to mar your face—from who, you didn’t really know. “You’re always heading back out somewhere, huh?”

Gladio had this laugh sometimes, where you could barely hear it: a rumble in his throat somewhere on the level of an old cat’s purr. But you could pick up on it, so easily, and it was as if someone had poured molten gold into your veins. You’d swear on the cosmogony that it had some kind of healing properties, because the frown disappeared almost instantaneously, a smile taking its place. “You make it sound like we’re married or something,” he teased, and then, in a mocking, higher-pitched voice, “ _You’re hardly ever home, Gladdy. I miss you soooo much!_ ”

That got a laugh out of you; it was probably a good thing he wasn’t around, because you weren’t sure if you wanted to smack him or hide under the covers. (You probably would have hidden; you had to stand on tiptoe to reach the back of his head.) “First of all, I don’t sound like that.”

You could practically hear the threat of more laughter in his voice. “Yeah, you do.”

Dignifying that with a response was useless. “Secondly, I’d never use Iris’s nickname for you. That’s just… I dunno. _Weird._ Besides, I like Gladio just fine.”

“You like me just fine, huh?”

“I like your _nickname_ just fine.”

“You wouldn’t even call me babe?”

“ _Thirdly—_ ” And you stopped. Not because there was no _thirdly_ , but precisely because of what it was.

Gladio hummed curiously, molten silver instead of gold. “Thirdly, what?”

You bit your lip. “Thirdly... we’re not married.”

“No,” Gladio mused after a moment. “We’re not married.”

“Do you even want to get married?”

“What?” he laughed. “To you?”

“ _In general, Gladiolus._ ”

“Ouch. Full-named.” He was leaning again. On thoughts, maybe, instead of furniture. “Well. Depends, I guess,” he said after yet another moment. “Do you want the hypothetical answer, or the real one?”

You had time to spare. (Did he?) “Both.”

“I mean…” He sighed, a thoughtful kind that betrayed that he’d asked himself this exact question too many times before. “Yeah, I’d want to. I think we all… kinda want some life companion. A partner, or a friend. Hell, even a cat, if that’s what you want. Whatever makes you happy.”

There was a _but_ hiding in there somewhere. You didn’t try to pry it out of him. He’d come to it in his own time. Still, there was something endearing about the thought of Gladio with a spouse. Maybe even kids. A whole movie montage of dates and work and the kind of intimacy only he could play out. Even from a friendly sideline, you could see it near-perfectly. The guy was made for love. It didn’t really matter what kind.

“But I gotta be realistic. I can’t.”

There was the _but._ There was always a _but._

“Too much to do, y’know? Daemons to fight, hunters to save, stuff I’ve had to do before I ever met you. Before I was even born, I think.”

“Are you about to go off on some thing about fate and destiny?”

“ _Hell_ no. I already think about it all the time.” The two of you already _talked_ about it all the time, anyway. Always called it _going off on some thing._ It was some fatalistic thing that wormed its way into your words and into your silences and demanded to be spoken about, as though formalities and interests and dreams were only ever meant to fill spaces and take a back seat.

You sighed. “So you can’t get married.”

“Not yet.”

You hated that you knew the rest of his sentence without his even having to say it. _If I get through it all alive._ You didn’t even know what “it all” entailed. “Sucks to suck, I guess.” It wasn’t the most sympathetic thing you could have said, and in retrospect, maybe you shouldn’t have said it at all. But maybe it was better to dial back destiny, or at least to keep him from falling headlong in his own silence.

Gladio seemed to think it was funny, at least’ there was a low, gruff laugh on his end. “How did we even get to talking about this?”

“You said I sounded like your wife, remember? Which I don’t.”

“Which you don’t.”

“Because we’re not married.”

“No,” Gladio said with a thoughtful hum. “We’re not. That’s a hell of a tragedy if I ever heard one.”

You couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. You couldn’t tell if you _wanted_ him to be joking or not. He never really carried himself or spoke like he’d seen other tragedies—real, visceral tragedies—but the dim glint in his eyes that the streetlights caught every so often seemed to tell you so. Right there with probably unintentional muscle twinges, and the occasional hollow word. He didn’t have to admit out loud that he was a walking tragedy, or that he kept them as companions.

“It’s not a tragedy if you get married in the end,” you reminded him. Because maybe breaking the tension was the right thing to do. “It’s only a tragedy if everyone dies. If other people, leftover people, have to pick up your piece when it’s all over.”

“I can pick up my own pieces,” Gladio said, speaking through loosely-clenched teeth. As if he wanted to say, _I’m other people._ Or, _I won’t let you pick them up for me. I won’t let you be my leftovers._

“I know,” you murmured, half-apologetic, half-soothing. “I know you can.”

“I will.”

“I know.”

“I’ll be in Lestallum in a few days.”

“You said that.”

“I did say that.”

You cradled the phone with both hands. A fragile thing. A fragile moment. A vase of split glass that was gluing itself back together. “Where will you go after that?”

“Leide. Nasty bunch of daemons out there, and someone I have to check in with, anyway.”

“Oh?” That made you sit up straighter. “Iris? Or that Iggy guy?”

“Neither. A guy named Cid. Could say we go way back. His granddaughter’s a real firecracker, too. Sure knows her way around a toolbox.”

You could hear the admiration sneaking into his voice, could feel the odd twinge in your chest. The realization that once upon a time, Gladio had probably had a life outside of hunting and surviving and conversations with you. A real life. You played it off with a laugh all the same. “What, she an old flame or something?”

“What, you jealous?”

“ _No!_ ”

Gladio actually laughed. Not molten gold, not hollow, individually wrapped things. A real laugh that echoed of daylight and, probably, everything he used to be when the sun came up. “You kidding?” he said. “Cindy Aurum either wouldn’t know flirting if it smacked her and asked to dance, or is just really, _really_ good at swerving people. Hell, she still does…” 

He trailed off then, like he remembered something he shouldn’t have—or didn’t want to—and he cleared his throat. “Anyway. Cid. He can soup up my stuff.”

You nodded, fully aware he couldn’t see you, and lay back against your pillows, eyes already adjusted to the dark. Lights from the city outside bled through the gap in your curtains, casting a stream of safety on the floor. FOr a moment, you wondered what Gladio looked like in daylight, real daylight. Not these artificial glows that never did anyone justice. Not even the light of the bookstore. Not even the day bulbs vendors constantly raved about in the marketplace (because if they weren’t enthusiastic about it, then who could be?). 

Maybe daylight wouldn’t do Gladio justice, either.

“And then what?” you ventured to ask.

“Let me get through that stuff first, jeez.” Individually wrapped things.

You smiled sadly, into the dark. “Have you always lived your life like that?”

“Like what?” he asked.

“In phases. Planned phases.”

“We all do that. They’re called days.”

“Gladio…”

If he were here right now, he’d be leaning forward as he sat, his smile caught in a Venn diagram of endearing and knowing too much. “It’s what you gotta do when you’re not guaranteed tomorrow,” he said. His voice had dropped to match yours; you might have fallen asleep to it if his words hadn’t been so sad.

“None of us is guaranteed tomorrow, Gladio,” you told him, and you sounded so small. Painfully small. “But we can still dream anyway. Even you.”

“If only,” he replied, and it sounded like he meant to say, _If only you knew what I meant._ But if you were meant to talk about these things in the dark, then the phone wasn’t the way to do it.

“I’ll see you in a few days?”

“Yeah. See you in a few days.” Gods above, he sounded like he was trying so hard to keep it together. To make you smile before bed. “Rest up, Buttercup.”

That was the only bad thing about spending time with Gladio, you thought as you hung up and stared blankly at the ceiling. The less he was around, the more you understood the difference between being alone and being lonely. 

Maybe Gladio had already figured that out a long time ago.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand we're back! Thank you to everyone who's provided so much support and excitement about this fic so far. You don't know how much I appreciate it <3
> 
> Onward!!!

“A few days” passed sluggishly. Waiting time always did. It was always as if the universe knew exactly what you were anticipating and slowed time itself—then kicked it back into turbo drive so that the moment left quicker than it came. Maybe it was telling you to savor the in-betweens as much as the times you all but hinged your life on. But you didn’t know. You couldn’t read the universe. You could only guess at ends of it.

Not that you had much to savor, anyway. There were still students who needed help, and books that wanted to be read, and a routine that demanded to be followed. And the more you stuck to routine, the more you wondered what it would be like to _not_ have to stick to routine. To have a life where you woke up every day not knowing what kind of adventure would be waiting at your door, or once you stepped outside it. To live in phases that were more than just civilian days or bullet points on a To Do list, concrete or imagined.

You could think of a handful of people who’d have a few choice words to say about that, and of course, one of them was Gladio. Hell, he practically lived that life already, to the point that you knew exactly what he’d tell you if he caught wind that you’d even entertained the thought. Things about how it wasn’t the adventure you’d always read about, how the daemons out there would crush you in five seconds flat, and you wouldn’t get to come back to life if someone turned your book back to Chapter One. 

And, as much as it annoyed you to admit it, he was right. You weren’t a hunter of any rank. In fact, you didn’t have any training to your name beyond self-defense classes you took on Thursdays, and you were pretty sure you couldn’t suplex a Red Giant. (A goblin, maybe, but even that seemed a stretch, when your only encounter with daemons had involved driving away from them at top speed.

So maybe you wouldn’t just throw your life to the wolves and risk it every day. But you could start small.

That made the days pass a little faster. Knowing your life could begin, really change for something brighter, at any moment. Or, maybe, knowing that it already had.

———

You waited for Gladio in the one place you knew you _could_ wait for him: the bench. But this time, instead of burying your nose in a book the way either of you usually did, you sat up straight, with the books in you lap, eyes peeled. This time, from a distance, you’d be the one keeping certain eyes out for him.

The only sad part about it, really, was the monotony. Not much about the city had changed in the last six years. Probably because it had changed so slowly that you’d missed it, or more likely because not much really had the capacity _to_ change in that time. Maybe it could have, under any other circumstances. People could explore, live beyond these little pockets of the world.

You couldn’t remember the last time just water had rained down from the sky. It only ever came down with whatever ashy spirit the Scourge was made of, and _that_ came down all the time. The Scourge didn’t hurt when it drifted to the ground, fluttering over clothing and skin, but it still felt like, at any moment, it could be too much. It could build up, like every bit of gil. Like someone was teetering on the edge of catching their death, just by going outside.

Gladio showed up a few moments later, eagle feathers on full display as he dabbed at his face with the hem of his muscle shirt. You thought you might have seen a bit of a scar on his abdomen, but your eyes could have been tricking you, too. Besides, it wouldn’t have been all that unusual, all things considered.

He wasn’t grinning as he approached you. It wasn’t that he looked _terrible._ He just didn’t look spectacular, either. He all but collapsed next to you on the bench, sprawled out with his arm slung along the back of it while he looked up and tiredly waved the Scourge away. “What’s up, Buttercup?” he said, heaving a sigh.

“Rough day?” you shot back, sparing him a glance. The poor guy seemed like he’d barely slept since he’d called you. Since he’d last left, really. But he managed a laugh, as breathless and exhausted as he looked, and shifted so his arm found purchase around your shoulders instead. An insistent little pull had you leaning against his side, comforted by solid muscle and the scent of a body wash with a spice you couldn’t place.

(Well, he might not have slept much, but at least he’d found a place to shower.)

Gladio didn’t say anything for a while. Didn’t look at you, either. He only held you there—loose enough to let you go if you needed to, but firm enough to tell you he needed a body. Whether it was yours or another’s was an entirely different matter. “It’s good to see you,” he finally said when that while had ended, his fingertips stroking a lazy trail up and down your arm.

“ _Now_ who’s acting like we’re married?” Your voice was soft, but teasing, and even then, you moved a little closer, pressed a little more flush. Gladio didn’t speak, but the gentle jolt of his chest told you he was holding back a laugh, and he laid his cheek on top of your head. 

Maybe this was one of those subtle homecoming moments. It wasn’t a hunter scooping their child up in a hug or getting tackled to the ground by their dog; it wasn’t someone returning from a long journey to dip their lover in a kiss without caring who saw. It was quiet. It spoke of a pause. It betrayed, maybe, more to come.

Two almost-ordinary people in the night, again.

“So what’s this ‘place nearby’ you keep talking about?” you asked him. You were close enough to press your ear to his chest, to find solace in the steady thud of his heart.

Gladio hummed thoughtfully; it buzzed against your ear. “It’s a secret,” he finally said.

“Is it a secret because it’ll put me in danger, or because I’ll get upset and offer you a place to crash, which you ultimately won’t take because you’re ‘too gentlemanly for that kind of thing?’”

“Y’know what? That first one sounds good and not way too specific at all.”

“ _Gladio!_ ”

“Okay, okay,” he said with a groan. “I give. It’s just the Leville.”

“That’s not so bad.”

“Lemme rephrase that,” he said. “It’s the armchair in the _lobby_ of the Leville. Look, I can explain—”

You froze, sitting up straight to face him; he was already giving you a look that said, _I knew you’d react like that._ But why wouldn’t you? You had a perfectly good space to accommodate him, and here he’d been refusing that because he placed gallantry above comfort? “You’re taking my bed,” you said, with little room for argument, as you got to your feet and extended a hand to him.

Of course he found that little room. He would. “I’m not taking your bed.”

“Then at least the couch.”

“I’m a big guy, Buttercup.” 

“It’s a big couch, Gladio.” It wasn’t, but you weren’t about to let that stop you.

Gladio sighed. “You’re not gonna budge on this, are you.”

“Nope.”

He closed his eyes, either weighing his options or praying—or both—and pushed himself to his feet once he opened them. “Just tonight,” he said, in a voice that added, _and that’s final._ “I’m leaving for Leide in the morning.”

“Just for tonight,” you agreed, taking his hand and leading the way, and he fell into step with you soon enough. As an equal instead of a guard.

———

You weren’t sure what it would be like to have Gladio in your apartment for the first time. Any time you thought about it had been less about him in your home and more about him being in front of you when he was too far away to be. But he didn’t seem to make a big deal about it, beyond the occasional leftover insistence that he’d be all right at the Leville. He must have taken your silence to mean you still weren’t budging, because all he did as soon as you unlocked the door was follow your suit. 

It was kind of comical how he had to duck his head just to get inside. He stepped out of his boots and left them by the door as he walked in, and hung against the wall while you set to searching for a spare pillow and blanket. And he looked around like he wanted to take in that this was the safety he left you to every night he walked you home.

“Have you eaten?” you asked; you were halfway inside a closet, straining for a pillow. You wouldn’t have been surprised if he hadn’t heard you.

“Yeah, I ate.”

“ _Really_ ate?”

His socks muffled his footsteps as he made his way over to you, and you braced yourself in case he decided to spontaneously pick you up again. But he didn’t; he only stood behind you, reaching over you to grab the pillow from the top shelf. “Yeah,” he said as he held the pillow out to you, then tucked it under his arm when you refused it. “Would I lie to you?”

“Jury’s still out.” You gave him a grin that you hoped seemed familiar to him, and joined him on the couch once he’d settled up there and patted the empty space next to where he sat. “Look what I found, though,” you went on, nodding toward a globe-shaped device and setting it on the coffee table.

Gladio raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

Without a word, you rose to shut the lights off, flipping a switch on the globe’s stand, and your ceiling and walls flickered to life almost instantly with pinpricks of light. It seemed that Gladio didn’t need to say anything either. He only sat up a little straighter, and his eyes went a little wider, lips parted in wonder as his gaze flitted around. You always figured that Gladio carried himself a little too heavily for any part of him to flit, but maybe he could if he’d been seized enough by something outside of him. Or within him. It was hard to tell.

“I got it from one of the shops,” you explained. “I used to have one back home, but I couldn’t bring it with me. Cause it wasn’t an ‘essential,’ and all. It’s not exactly the same, but close enough.” You were huddled at the opposite end of the couch, sometimes watching the lights, sometimes watching him, and you might have moved closer if you didn’t think it would disturb him. Or if you were just a little braver. 

“I can’t remember the last time I saw the stars for real,” you admitted, before you went quiet and let yourself get as lost in the lights as he was.

He pulled you close again, after a moment—a soft but emphatic tug on your wrist that had you inching toward him, nestled against his side. He didn’t need to say anything; it was all fine as it was, with his hand at your waist and your head at his chest. Like this was more than enough to question what went wrong so long ago.

“Got you a souvenir,” he mumbled, words that you felt more than heard.

“What?” you laughed. “A voretooth fang on a leather strap?”

Gladio laughed, too, though it wasn’t as heart, and rummaged through one of his jacket pockets. He pulled out a tightly-closed fist, unraveling each fingers as if uncovering his soul.

You blinked a couple of times at his open palm before lifting your gaze to meet his. “A dog tag?”

He only nodded, letting the pendant dangle from its chain; it glittered in all that starlight, and he made no move to lower it into your hands. “Figured you should have it. Or at least, keep it safe for me. It means more to you, and, well.” He shrugged. “The thing might not mean much to me, but you keeping it does. So would you?”

Neither of you was looking at the other, only beyond, and you came to focus on the dog tag again. It was still swaying there, and the way it moved made it hard to read the inscription on it. “Is that how you feel about your life sometimes?” you asked, your voice just barely above a whisper.

“Like what?” he said.

“Like it should mean nothing to you and everything to someone else. To me.”

If there were any light in Gladio’s eyes, it had gone out then; his fingers were still curled around the chain. “Can I put it on you?” he asked instead. 

You didn’t answer, only scooted forward and jammed your hands in your lap, your eyes on his. All those questions. All that silence. 

Gladio didn’t say anything else as his arms looped over your head, and his touch was gentle, if battle-callused. Warm, compared to the cold of the chain, and reluctant to pull away. Even afterward, he kept his hands on your shoulders, just enough firm to reassure you—or himself—of reality.

On further examination, the pendant was heavily polished and glinted in the light as if it had been made only recently. Stamped on the front of it, in all capital letters, was his first name and last initial, with his date of birth just below. “Gladiolus A.,” you read out loud, squinting to read the small font. “You never told me your last name started with an A. Thought you said it was like… Hester, or something.”

Gladio paled.

Your heart sank, the pendant suddenly heavy in your palm. “Guess the jury’s not out about the lying thing anymore.”

“I can explain—”

“ _Can_ you?” Your voice was eerily even; you weren’t sure if that would hurt more than yelling.

“Look, you just.” Gladio sighed, pulling his legs up onto the couch. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Then _make_ me understand.” The tag warmed up in your grip, felt a little lighter with your words. “If you’re gonna entrust this to me, then don’t I deserve to know the truth about it? About _you_?”

There was a stray lock of hair caught under the chain, and Gladio reached forward to brush it away from your neck. Your breath hitched at his touch, and you held it until he pulled his hand back, and in that moment, neither of you broke eye contact. Like you’d shared souls without sharing words.

“You’re right,” he finally said, a low rumble in his throat. “You’re right. But not tonight.”

“Why not tonight?”

“Because it’s too much to dump on you and then just. Leave you to think about.” He shook his head. “I’m not gonna do that to you when you deserve better.”

“And what if something happens to you in Leide? What if you don’t come back?” You folded your arms, voice matching his volume. “Then you’ll have left me with too many questions, instead of too many answers.”

“Nothing’s gonna happen to me in Leide.”

“How can you be so sure?”

The light had come back to Gladio’s eyes, hard and determined, unmoving like the rest of him. “Because I’m not allowed to die yet.”

———

That had been a week ago. A week of good morning and good night text messages, a week of sparse, ten-minute phone calls. A week of work on your part, and hunts on his. The quietest week you’d had since you met him.

The morning Gladio left, he knocked on your door and woke you up a few hours before your alarm was supposed to go off, reassuring you of his presence with a soft, “Hey.” It was hard to see the outline of him in the half-asleep dark, and you needed a moment to remember he’d even stayed the night to begin with.

“Didn’t wanna go without saying goodbye,” he mumbled, hanging by the doorway as if waiting to be invited in. 

You beckoned him over, turned on the bedside lamp and rubbed the sleep from your eyes, wondering if he’d gotten any himself. “Don’t go yet,” you said. “Got something for you.”

How you remembered when you were half-awake, you still didn’t know. Maybe it was because you’d thought of it too often right before falling asleep. But you padded over to living room, where you’d left your bag to lie limply against the couch. After a moment of rummaging through it, you fished out the books you’d cradled so carefully the night before and held them out to him. “The third book in the series, and that poetry collection you kept reading in the store. So you’re not stuck reading the same stuff over and over again.” You yawned. “Don’t say no. Just give them back when you’re done with them.”

In that quiet span of time, Gladio weighed the two books in his hand light he was weighing the worth of souls—and maybe he was. But he tucked them away in a satchel and gathered you up in his arms. No warning, again. “Come on, Buttercup,” he said. “Back to bed.” And you weren’t about to protest. Not when he let you hug him the whole way there.

“Don’t die,” you told him, hazy and well on your way back to sleep. “If you die I’ll have to kill you.”

It was kind of a blessing, how one of the last things you heard from Gladio was his tired, molten-gold laugh. “I’m not gonna die,” he said.

“You can’t.”

“I can’t.”

He had the courtesy to wait until you fell asleep to leave—and, as you noticed when you later woke up alone, to close and lock all the doors behind him. But he didn’t have the courtesy—or maybe the impertinence, in his mind—to touch you goodbye. No lingering thumb on the cheek or across the forehead, no squeeze of the shoulder or hand, no brush of his lips on your existence.

You had to wonder what it would have been like if he had. If it would have meant anything beyond a _see you soon._

It couldn’t have. He couldn’t do anything about it besides.

Still, the city felt more absent with him gone: short two books and a man who thought he was nothing and everything in this forsaken place. There was an in-betwen you couldn't savor here. The streets were the wrong kind of weightless. The floorboards in the bookshop didn’t creak the way you remembered—or maybe you were merely projecting about that. All the weight hunt instead in the dog tag around your neck, which you turned over and over in your fingers when you thought of him, rereading the name from time to time.

Gladiolus A. An explanation in every etch. A story in every light it caught.

And, to top it off, someone had taken his spot on the bench.

To be fair, it wasn’t really _his_ spot; it didn’t have his name written on it the way the tag did (and even then, the tag was still technically in _your_ hands). But it didn’t feel right, for a body to replace his so easily, so soon after.

Habit had you walking there, you knew. Maybe a longing you should have sent out the door with him. And of course they worked together to push your heart deep in the pit of your stomach when you saw someone else sitting there. But they looked exhausted, liked they’d only just straggled into town and needed as little as a hot meal and a water bottle to get by. Who were you to deny someone that if you could afford to give it to them?

The figure looked up as you approached—at the ready, limbs tense. If you could see nerves, theirs might have steeled. “I’m sorry, I can’t help…” they began, voice feather-light but void of energy or emotion, and then stopped. And their eyes, a brilliant brown in the streetlight, went wide. “It’s… _you._ ”

And so did yours. “ _Iris_?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I know it's been 84 years, and I'm so sorry. I've been chipping away at this update little by little, and I'm just as glad as you (hopefully!) are to put it out. Enjoy, and don't forget to leave a kudos or a comment if you liked it <333 Thanks for sticking around!!!

You probably wouldn’t have recognized Iris if she hadn’t recognized you first. At Cape Caem, she was a bright little thing with a penchant for clashing patterns and mid-heeled boots and collecting seashells near the haven along the beach. Her hair was cropped short back then, and her eyes were as full of possibilities as her voice was full of expectation and conviction.

Now she sat across from you at a restaurant in the middle of a worn-out Lestallum, toying with a braid that hung just past her shoulders and clenching her fists in a pair of worn fingerless black gloves. She’d traded in the tartan skirt for a cropped leather jacket, but her old wristbands and the heels on her boots had stayed, at least. And the light wasn’t necessarily gone from her eyes, but it was dimmer now. Carved into something that didn’t hesitate to kill. Something you thought was never supposed to belong to her.

She didn’t speak much, only examined the menu with a raised eyebrow, then sighed as she peeked over it and laid it on the table. “Okay,” she finally said. “Talk.”

“I feel like _I_ should be telling _you_ that,” you mused, only pausing your conversation to place your orders with the waitress who came by.

“Yeah?” Iris traced one finger around the rim of the glass. “What gives you that idea?”

Your answer, amid the dull roar of other conversations, was to gesture vaguely at her with a pointed look, and she laughed and tossed her braid over her shoulder. As if that were meant to excuse just about everything.

(Well. At least she could remember how to laugh in all this.)

“I’ve been around,” she said between sips of ice water. “You know. Selling clothes to leftover glaives. Training with an immortal marshal the minute I turned eighteen. Kicking ass and taking names.” She grinned, entirely proud of herself. Maybe she should have been. “They call me the Daemon Slayer now, did you know? I guess you could say made a name for myself in three years.”

“I probably would, if the Daemon Slayer had thought to call every once in a while.” You paused. “Wait… you trained with _Cor Leonis_?”

“The one and only. I’d still be the fighter I was six years ago if it weren’t for him.”

“Assuming you fought at _all_ six years ago.”

“You’ve obviously never seen me take on some imperial goons with my brother.”

“Of course not, considering I only just _met_ your brother a few months ago.” You rested your elbows on the table, your eyes never tearing away from hers. “Were you ever planning on introducing us, or was he doomed to be Tall, Dark, and Beefy for the rest of my life?”

Iris nearly choked on her water as she laughed, thanking the waitress for her concern once the food arrived. “And risk some twisted parent-teacher conference type thing? Gods, no way.” This time, she was the one to pause, brow furrowed and lips quirked. “How’d you run into Gladdy, of all people?”

Without meaning to, and even though she really should have gone first, you talked, related what you wanted to of the time you’d spent with Gladio and left out the parts that were better left thought about in the quiet dark. When you were finished, you settled back in your chair, fork and knife in hand, and waited for Iris’s verdict.

Which was, of course, a raised eyebrow and a smirk. “You hear that?” she said.

“Um.” You blinked. “Hear what?”

“ _Wedding bells_ ,” she said in a gleeful whisper, with everything she used to be in between those algebra equations. You hadn’t realized how much you missed her mischief. The chances she had to be young.

You rolled your eyes. “More like the sound of you distracting from the real matter at hand. _As usual_?”

“Uh huh. The real matter being?”

“How you became… well…” You managed a nod in her direction, just as vague as before. “This.”

Silence fell between the two of you, and Iris’s expression grew solemn, stony. Like she’d aged those six years all over again, right in front of you. “After the Scourge hit hard,” she began, voice dipping eerily low. “Back when Noct—uh, the Prince—disappeared. Things started happening. Things I wished I’d never had to see, and believe me, I’ve seen plenty.” Her grip on her fork tightened, knuckles whitening under the streetlight. Her eyes were hard and glittering again. “The daemons ran me and Talcott out of Caem. You remember him, right?”

Of course. How could you forget? He was the one kid who made Cactuars worth tolerating. You worked them into extra credit questions any opportunity you had—it made success all the more vindicating, personal, when he got them right. You didn’t want to imagine him—young and impressionable, with his whole damn life ahead of him—in the face of a daemon, fearing for his life and looking for a place in the dark to run. Hadn’t the loss of his grandfather been enough? Hadn’t he already grown up too fast?

“He’s all right, isn’t he?” you asked.

“As all right as anyone scared out of their home could be. He’s in Hammerhead now, helping out wherever he’s needed. Kinda makes for a good distraction, I guess. Or maybe it helps him feel like he’s doing something good for the world. Hard to tell what goes on in his mind these days You know Cindy Aurum?”

You pursed your lips. “I know… _of_ Cindy.”

“Yeah. He and Prompto are pretty much at her beck and call these days. She really knows how to keep the guys under her thumb.” There was that spark in her eyes again, the thing that made them light all over again. “Oh, wait, have you met Prompto? He’s not around here much, but he comes from time to time. Sometimes Lestallum has supplies the garage doesn’t, and he’s always the first to volunteer to drive up.” She rolled her eyes. “Gee, I wonder why…”

You shook your head, and Iris looked away, something wistful in her expression. You wondered if maybe you should have known him. If you were supposed to have met him, once upon a time.

“He’s a character,” she finally declared, covering up her expression with a smile as muted as her voice, one you had a feeling had become more typical over the years. “I hope you see him soon. Eyes like his? You can’t miss ‘em.”

“ _Now_ who’s the one setting off wedding bells, huh?”

Iris laughed, hollowly, and shook her head, peeling off her gloves and shrugging out of her jacket, revealing feathery streaks of ink along her arms that you recognized almost instantly. “Nah. No time for stuff like that,” she said, with all the despair of someone who’d been hoping for it her whole life.

She told you a lot of things you’d never expected her to say between bites of food. That half of the time she hunted alone—partly because she knew she could do it, and partly because Gladio did, too. The other half of the time, she worked alongside some ex-mercenary from Niflheim, as though she was worth trusting. Said they sometimes went out into the wilderness together—“Slay for Pay,” Iris called it with a proud grin, like she’d made up the damn slogan herself, and she probably had—and sometimes took on relief efforts together. But who was there to relieve when people were cooped up in pockets of the world or slowly succumbing to this darkness and disease that was older than any of them?

Or were they relieving half-deteriorated people, salvaging what they could and doing what they willed with the rest?

You swallowed hard. Your grip on your fork tightened.

Aranea Highwind, Iris said her name was. That was a name with command. A person worth aspiring to. You’d never met her, either—though maybe, based on description alone, you’d seen her pass through town once or twice—but Iris’s words were enough to convince you, and maybe herself, too. As though she still needed convincing, after working alongside such a woman for so long.

She called it all—thriving, loving, anything—she called it “stuff like that” as though it hadn’t meant a thing to her. Or as though it had, but wasn’t supposed to anymore, not in the face of all that training, all that fighting, everything for whatever greater good she was working for. It wasn’t worth asking yourself how long Iris had lived like this, or forced herself to, or how much of it she’d picked up from her brother; an invisible hand snatched your heart and clenched all the blood out of it before your mind was halfway through the question.

Before the two of you parted ways that night, and after you’d exchanged phone numbers to keep in touch again, you jammed your hand into the pocket of your jeans, fingers curling tight around the dog tag, and asked, “Iris? what’s your last name?”

With a curious expression and without missing a beat, Iris replied, “Hester, why?”

You frowned, unwavering, the chain digging into your palm. “What’s your _real_ last name?”

The expression faded almost as quickly as it had come. “How did you know?”

This time, you managed a weak smile and shook your head, thumb pressing into each engraved letter, feeling for that traitorous A. If she had secrets of her own, then who was to say you couldn’t have yours, too? “You and Talcott never looked anything alike.”

With a look that toed the line between amused and defeated, and a smile that pulled her lips taut, she sighed, and spoke more to the ground than you as she pulled her gloves back on, covered up her ink. “Amicitia. Iris Amicitia. And if anyone asks, I never told you.”

———

You’d been thinking about it for days.

Gladiolus Amicitia. That was his goddamn name. Of course it would roll off the tongue better than Gladiolus Hester, but all this time you’d chalked that up to some unfathomable reason that he went by “Gladio” instead.

There wasn’t a damn person in the country who wasn’t familiar with the Amicitia name. It was almost as famous as the line of royalty—practically required reading for a history class. For as long as there’d been a Lucian king, there’d been an Amicitia beside him, protecting him right down to the teeth. You’d known plenty of that from the news alone—the name “Clarus Amicitia” was just as ingrained in the news as “Regis Lucis Caelum.” Journalists and news broadcasters alike called him the Third Wall of Lucis sometimes. Said there was no way the king could fall if his shield didn’t fall first.

(They stopped calling him that after the treaty signing. Maybe it seemed disingenuous to remember him for a role he couldn’t fulfill.)

And how long had Gladio and Iris had to grapple with this, anyway? Did they even allow it, or did they keep it to themselves all this time?

You could have noticed the signs of hiding in Gladio, at least, as much as he probably didn’t want you to know about it. You should have noticed it, by all accounts. The hesitation whenever you mentioned his family or where he came from, the knit in his brow and the pauses in his response, the way he said so automatically that protection ran in his blood. Like he was supposed to be a third wall of his own. Or maybe a first, all things considered. Of course it made sense to you, in the moment, to attribute that to the fact that _everyone_ had lost someone in all these years. Maybe you weren’t supposed to realize the scope of what he’d lost. Maybe he’d spent all these years trying to suppress it himself.

You hoped to the gods that wasn’t all you were good for, ins his eyes.

Your fingers found the solitary A more easily now that you were alone in your apartment—sometimes when you didn’t even want to find it. It was almost like it wanted to be found, every single time, to remind you of what you weren’t sure you wanted to know. Absence was supposed to make the heart grow fonder, and so was the weight of the dog tag, or so you thought. But every time you clasped it in your hand, it seemed to deflect all your warmth, hold every possibility you didn’t want to think about.

Not the least of which was the possibility that it would never return to him.

You shook your head.

For all the times you held onto the dog tag, there was still a part of you that couldn’t take it out of your pocket. A part of you that wanted to hear whatever his explanation was, and not whatever proverbial words you were putting in his mouth. Why he’d held this information out for so long, why he didn’t seem to trust you with it the way he trusted you with his taste in books and his safety in the middle of the night, why he’d outright _lied_ to you—

No. 

_No._

Your heart twisted in its cage. You couldn’t call it lying. Even if you should have, even if it made it easier to parse out or justify whatever unnameable thing you felt whenever you tried to imagine this Cindy character at work in your head, you couldn’t. She had nothing to do with this besides. 

Because you weren’t married.

And Iris, what about her? Of all people—you could still hear the phrase in her voice, crisp and jagged with war instead of crystalline—you would have figured she’d be proud of her own heritage. That she might have gone around brandishing the title of Lady Iris, or touting something about never underestimating the power of an Amicitia, because that was what they were. The kind of superhero strength you only ever read about in comic books. So what was she doing slipping around dark alleyways and half the Lucian kingdom, saying that she never told you what she told you? Or, rather, what you’d pulled out of her?

What in the world was there to be so secretive about when identity was next to the only thing people had in all this mess? When they hadn’t had salvation or light or a goddamn prince for years upon years?

And what in the world were you doing sitting here waiting for the answers to just come to you like some information dump? 

Iris had given you enough to work on. There was a library in town. You could look up whatever you needed—whatever Gladio was to you, his lineage wasn’t exactly under lock and key. It wasn’t as disingenuous or, frankly, creepy, as looking up a total stranger you’d met eyes with more than a few times on some social media platform.

Or, at least, that was how you tried to convince yourself in the moment. And if that didn’t work, then what was wrong with hitching a ride to Hammerhead yourself? Talcott was a good enough reason to go; there was no reason he wouldn’t remember or welcome you. Maybe he was unreadable these days, but you’d be hard-pressed to believe there was no longer a genuine bone in his body.

Hell, you could go right now. What was stopping you? Gladio had been gone for a week and a half now, with no sign that he was okay but the unspoken fact that he wasn’t _supposed_ to die yet, and Iris’s last words to you were still ringing in your head.

“What are you doing with your life?” you’d asked her before you parted ways, like maybe you could make sense of something before you were left to your own devices.

Iris only took a breath, jammed her hands in her pockets, and said, “What I’m meant to do,” before turning on her heel and hopping up onto the pickup truck just outside of town.

And so was Gladio, wherever he was.

And so was the prince—or so you and everyone else alive hoped.

And so were you. Or, at least, you were about to.

A knock at your door, slow and heavy, drew your attention just as you were grabbing your satchel. You weren’t expecting any company, hadn’t invited any students; in fact, it was supposed to be your day off. For a moment, you cursed yourself for not having a peephole, and years of looters and fake-polite strangers had taught you to keep an aluminum bat by your coat rack.

With a deep breath and cautious motion, under the scrutiny of a near-invisible eye, you curled your fingers around the grip of the bat, muscles tensing as though ready to strike—and you unlocked the door.

The last thing you expected to see was Gladio standing there, a death grip on the doorway far above your head and a half-soaked bandage wrapped around his middle. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat with every sharp but quiet breath, and his eyes flickered toward yours, full of whatever light they caught from your living room. There was a wear in his expression, something that said _Help me_ and _I told you so_ all at once—something that drew you in so much that you barely registered that you could see his bare chest at all.

Still, your bat fell to the floor with a clatter, thudding mutely where it hit the rug; if Gladio winced, it wasn’t because of the sound. You took a step back, but he didn’t take a step forward. He stayed stationary in the hall, like some supernatural creature, risen from the half-dead and only mobile on your word.

Gladio said, “I’m not staying at the Leville.”

You said, “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/omnistruck) and a [Tumblr](http://voltisubito.tumblr.com) where you can follow me!
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